The Naming of Rhindon Wolfsbane
by Mercury Gray
Summary: Peter tells Caspian how his sword Rhindon came to be named.
1. Chapter 1

Oh, the Prince Caspian trailer is responsible for a great many wrongs, and this story is one of them.

Ian: She apologizes.

It's kind of trite, very fanservicey, and in my opinion, not the most educated piece I've ever written. My little sister enjoyed it, and I value her opinion very much because she's a very discerning fourteen year old, so you all get to read it, too.

It's a fun little fic about how Peter's sword, Rhindon, got its name, and I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

"_Ah," said Peter, drawing a scabbard out of the chest with pleasure, "My sword!"_

"_The sword that Aslan gave you? Rhindon?" Caspian asked, not a little excited that he was seeing something that very few people ever see, a legend, come to life._

"_No," Peter said, "This is the sword Aslan gave me, but that was not Rhindon; it had no name when it was given." Something older and wiser than Peter now was had woken up inside him, and he felt it renewing him into the way he was before he had left Narnia, noble and strong and kingly._

"_Then how did it come to be Rhindon?" asked Caspian, who was now more curious than ever._

"_We've no time for stories now, King Peter," Trumpkin reminded the two teenagers. "Perhaps when this is over you may tell the prince."_

* * *

"_Now the battles are over," Caspian reminded, setting his helmet down on a rock next to him as he sat down, "and you promised me the tale of Rhindon Wolfsbane."_

"_So I did," Peter remembered, sitting down on the rocks near Caspian. "Very well. It begins…where does it begin? Before a battle, in the northern mountains, against the trolls. It was cold that day…_

"Cold enough that there's frost on my gauntlets!" Lucy, Queen of Narnia and the Eastern Isles, complained, holding up the offending fist. "How am I supposed to fight with frosty armor?"

"Well, if you'd stayed home with Ed and Su like we asked you to, you wouldn't have this problem," Peter reminded his teenaged sister, looking through the trees for any sign of the trolls.

"I'm Lucy the Valiant, Peter, not Lucy the docile!" the Queen said pertly. "I'm not supposed to stay home!"

"Suit yourself, but if that's the case, stop complaining," Peter said, listening closely to the trees.

Lucy scowled, but for the moment, her complaining stopped. Peter was still listening, and then he heard it; the crackle of breaking twigs and the shaking ground that told him that the trolls were close; they'd smelled them out, and now they were angry.

"Foul breath," Orieus said, his sharp nose sniffing the air. "Make ready!" he shouted, not caring now who heard; Lucy unsheathed her sword, a study and yet feminine affair that the armoury of Cair Paravel had made especially for her. Peter loosed his own sword in its scabbard, not quite ready to pull it forth.

The ground was shaking more, and the sound of heavy breathing was filling the air when suddenly the trolls burst through the trees, smashing left and right with their clubs and boulder sized fists. One particularly large one swung at Peter, throwing him from his horse and into a hefty pine tree. Peter slid down the trunk, armor rattling as he hit the ground, shaken and dazed but still very much alive. The scene rotated a few times in triplicate, but everything focused once more and he stood up, sword in hand, shoving the blade into the nearest troll's thigh and making the creature keen in agony, turning around to face the source of the powerful sting so that the faun who had been trying to fight it could bury his own sword into its shoulder, piercing it through the heart and killing it.

He was back in the thick of it, wondering where Lucy had gone when he saw her slicing, almost helplessly, at one of the larger trolls, who was not showing much pain in spite of the fact that she had all of hacked off his arm.

"Lucy!" Peter shouted as the troll buffeted her horse out of the way, leaving Lucy on the ground, stunned. He rushed over, hacking at the troll for all that he was worth, trying to use all of his height to his advantage against the still much taller troll. But nothing was working- the creature kept going at him, until finally it picked him up, raising him over its head with every intention of throwing him down to crush him that way. He threw Peter up, up into the air, and then the brute's fist connected with Peter's hip, throwing him against the rocks again. Everything jarred in Peter's vision, and he felt something break- an arm, a leg, he did not know, and then everything went dark.

When he woke up, the corpse of the troll he'd been fighting was in front of him face down with one of the centaur's spears in its back, and Lucy and Oreius were standing over him, looking concerned.

"Peter, are you all right?" Lucy asked. "That was a hard fall. Has anything broken?"

Peter moved all his limbs and found, rather remarkably, that nothing was in pain. "Something broke, but it wasn't me," he said, putting his hands down on the ground to get up. "AH!"

He quickly drew his hand away from the ground where he had set it down to find it bleeding. He looked down to see a shard of metal- a section of sword, which had sliced through the leather palm of his gauntlet and cut his hand. He looked around him to find another section, and another, the hilt of the sword still near his hand. The weapon, it seemed, had shattered.

Lucy looked sympathetic. "Oh, Peter, your sword! That was a gift from Aslan!"

Peter looked at the hilt in his hand and threw it to the ground, disgusted. "Fine lot of help that turned out to be," he said, feeling the back of his head for the bruise he knew was developing there. "Orieus, what's to report?" he said, trying to forget the sword for the moment.

"Three trolls dead, and one bleeding badly when I sent three of mine after it; the other small one fled. It'll probably die without its band the next time it meets another group."

Peter nodded, rotating his shoulder to try and relieve some of the stiffness that was slowly taking over all of his body after being thrown twice. "And our losses?"

"A few bruises, and a concussion, and your highness's injuries, but other than that, thankfully, nothing."

Peter nodded, a massive headache threatening to make him pass out. "Let's go home before I get thrown against another rock," he said, limping back to the place where the reserve stood with a new horse for the King- they'd done these patrols enough times in Peter's seven years on the throne that he had gotten quite used to losing mounts to a troll's fist or a miscast spell. Evil still lingered in the high hills of the north, but the hags and werewolves scarcely came down from there to really trouble Narnia any more.

"Peter, you should bring it home," Lucy said, and Peter paused, feeling the lightness of the scabbard by his side. It was a distressing feeling, now that he thought about it. Almost like being naked where everyone could see, open to attack."Perhaps the Armory can fix it. And it doesn't do to go leaving perfectly good sword hilts all about the wilderness, gifts from Aslan or not."

Peter nodded, and retraced his steps. But there was nothing left at the foot of the rock face; the sword in all its bits and pieces was gone.

"Where did my sword go?" Peter asked, looking for the pieces where they had broken on the stone.

"This mountain is a mysterious place," Oreius said vaguely. "The old legends say that a great lady lives here, inside the mountain in a palace of light. Perhaps she and her smiths have taken the sword, to fix it for you."

"Or a little goblin too cowardly to come out when the fighting started stole it," Peter said angrily. "Come on, let's go home. There's nothing more we can do here."

* * *

"_King Peter, isn't it time we were going home, too?" Trumpkin asked, interrupting the story._

"_Trumpkin, we were just getting to the good part!" Caspian complained._

"_I think it can wait till dinner," Peter confessed. ""It's a story better saved for when you're not hungry enough to eat a horse. Then you can hear about the Lady of the Gilded Horn and the feast she gave," he hinted. _

_It was enough for Caspian; he kept his silence about the rest of the story until they were home._


	2. Chapter 2

The Naming of Rhindon Wolfsbane, Part Two

At the offhand suggestion of one of my reviewers, let me clarify something for all you lovely people reading this:

It is my interpretation (interpretation is key here) that Aslan gave the weapons we first see in LWW to Father Christmas so that he, in his altruistic gift giving capacity, could give them the Pevensie Children. I don't see Father Christmas as the type of guy who randomly goes about giving out ironmongery of any sort, military or otherwise, so logically, it follows by my reasoning that someone else (Aslan) gave them to him with the instructions to give them to Peter and Co. (Additionally, we could say that since Aslan 'gave' Father Christmas back to Narnia by weakening the White Witch's magic, he also indirectly 'gave' those gifts to the Pevensies.)

In response to another one of my reviewers, Morohtar whom I love and adore so very much because his Narnia fictions are made out of awesome, I don't know when this story takes place. Only that it does.

Anyway. Enjoy.

* * *

_Dinner after a long day of work is good, but dinner after a battle tastes ten times better than dinner before, mainly because you know you are alive enough to be eating it, and dinner with the promise of a story afterwards is perhaps the best of all. After everyone had eaten and drunk their fill of Narnia's bounty, Caspian once more reminded Peter of his story._

"_Was she beautiful, the Lady of the Gilded Horn?" he asked, smiling in that special way that young men have about them when women are involved._

_Peter chuckled. "We're not to that part of the story yet, Caspian!"_

"_Well then, get there!" Caspian urged. "I want to know what she looks like."_

* * *

When the troll hunting patrol returned home, Peter was sent straight to bed by a concerned Susan while Lucy was left to relate the rest of the story to their less militarily inclined siblings.

"So where is Peter's sword?" Susan asked when Lucy had finished telling how she and one of the centaurs had finished off the troll that had thrown Peter to the rock. Lucy's face fell.

"Oh, that," she said sadly. "It broke, when he was thrown into the rock. I think it was the cold, really, and the troll was so strong…" she trailed off.

"Well, then why didn't he bring it home with him?" Susan asked curiously. Peter had loved Aslan's gift, and why he would leave it behind even if it were broken was a mystery to her.

"Someone else took it first," Lucy said, much to the confusion of her siblings.

"Queen Lucy!" The conversation was interrupted by the hurried arrival of a very concerned looking Tumnus, who by the looks of things had run from the library on the other end of the castle to greet his dear Queen Lucy and see that she was all right. "When I saw what happened to poor King Peter," he began, and then, blushing to the tips of his ears, calmed down considerably when he saw Lucy smiling knowledgeably.

"Thank you for the concern, Tumnus," Lucy said, clasping the tips of his fingers and giving his hand a little shake, their own private joke and sign of affection.

Edmund frowned at having the story interrupted and drew Lucy back into the conversation with a very disapproving sort of grumbling sound. "Now's not the time for games, Lu! What happened to that sword?"

"I'm serious!" Lucy defended. "When we went back for the pieces, they were gone. Orieus said the Lady in the Mountain had taken them."

"The lady in the mountain?" Edmund asked skeptically. Tumnus, however, was enthralled.

"Did you see her? Did she come herself?" he asked, his ears flittering with excitement.

"You mean to tell me that there is a lady in the mountain who goes around stealing swords and such?" Edmund asked, ever the logical one of the four.

"Oh yes, yes indeed, King Edmund. But never stealing; the lady has enough of her own treasures not to have to steal from others. No, she takes what is broken and makes it new again. The older tales say that she is the Sun, and that her palace under the mountain is full of light and laughter. If it is she who has taken the sword," Tumnus said, "You can rest assured that it will be returned to King Peter, King Edmund. Better than before, if I know the tales aright."

Edmund sighed and summoned over a servant, one of the badgers. "Go to the armoury and tell them to find a new sword for King Peter." The badger nodded and went off. "Who knows when this lady will return it? If she ever will at all."

Peter was out and about the next day, practicing with the new blade, but it was certainly not as nice as the lion-pommeled blade that Aslan had given him through Father Christmas. Peter found it heavy and cumbersome, but he had known for a long time that his old sword had at least some magic in it, and this weapon had none at all except the very ordinary smithing kind.

* * *

"_We waited a fortnight for some sign from the lady," Peter continued, "But none came. Until she sent her daughter."_

"_The Lady of the Gilded Horn," Caspian supplied; all ears were raptly listening now. Peter nodded._

"_We were sitting at supper, and the hall was cold, it being near to wintertime. And then… she came in, and everything was warm again," Peter said happily, staring at the wall and smiling at the memory._

"_Well?" Caspian said, literally on the edge of his seat. "Was she beautiful?"_

"_Of course she was beautiful! Why do you think King Peter's smiling like that?" one of the younger badgers was saying- quite a crowd had come to sit near the fire to listen to the story. _

"_How beautiful, Peter?" Caspian pressed, waiting for the drop of honey to fall._

_Peter sighed. "Have you ever seen a sunrise?" he asked, still gazing at the wall and the tapestry that hung there. "One of those golden, beautiful sunrises out on a very level plain when the sky is clear and the sun crests over the hill so very slowly? She was like that, that sunrise, golden and magnificent. And the more you stared at her, the lovelier she became, because …she was the sunrise."_

* * *

"Lady Rhiainwyn, the daughter of the Sun," the herald proclaimed from the top of the hall. "Lady of the Gilded Horn, Envoy of the Mountain, Dawn-bringer!"

Everyone in the hall pulled back to let her pass, letting the golden lace of her train float gently along the ground behind her. In her wake she left a shimmer of light, which quickly left the floor after her. On her head was a cornet of flowers, but a closer eye would have seen that they were actually tiny golden stars, twinkling against her golden-red hair. At her hip, slung from a baldric made of crimson cord, a delicate golden horn hung, the same horn that she announced the arrival of her mother the sun with every morning. The High King stood, and his siblings followed suit, ready to receive her, half in awe and half in fear.

"I bring a message from my mother," Rhiainwyn said, her voice musical and soft, like the touch of early light through the crispness of a spring morning. "She has reforged the sword of Peter your King, and begs you come to her house to retrieve it."

"Could you not have brought it here yourself?" Susan asked, immediately feeling stupid for asking such a question.

Rhiainwyn turned to Susan and smiled agelessly, the pitying look of someone who has known the world for many ages and is well acquainted with the confusion of mortal men. "Would that I could, Daughter of Eve, but my mother's magic is a strong thing. Reforging a sword made by Lord Aslan is a dangerous business, and strong magic, deep magic, must go into it, as deep magic went into it before. There is an enchantment upon the blade now, Susan called Gentle, whereby none but the owner may touch it. Peter must retrieve the sword himself, and I am come to bring him thither."

Edmund began to speak, but Peter held out a hand as if to restrain him. "I will go with you, Lady Rhianinwyn."

The dawn smiled, and bowed her head, holding out her hand for him to take as he stepped down from the dais where the High table was placed. She glanced at him, and drew about the both of them the 

glittering golden lace that was her cloak. A great warmth enveloped Peter, and he shut his eyes, reveling in the feeling. When he opened them again, he was in a great white hall, with high vaulted ceilings and the music of feasting filling every corner.

At the end of the hall was a great table, filled with every possible food and flagon a mind could dream of, and behind the great spread, a host of lords and ladies who were more beautiful than Peter had thought it was possible for people to be. At the center of the table, in a great chair draped in gold, sat the Lady of the Mountain herself, robed in gold as her daughter was. Peter could not help but stare in rapture, and stepped forward when she beckoned as though she held him on a leash.

The music stopped, and the Lady spoke. "High King Peter, you have come as I bid," she said, her voice just as beautiful as her daughter's.

"Had I a choice, your majesty?" Peter asked, and the Lady laughed, letting the hall ring with the sound.

"There is always a choice, Lord of Cair Paravel. But come, I see that you are hungry. Sit by us, and feast a while in our company," she offered, gesturing to the seat of honor at her right side, vacant and waiting for him.

"I think, my Lady, that I had better to receive your gift and leave," Peter said decorously, and the Lady nodded, understanding.

"The affairs of Narnia are great, I know. At least a cup of wine, then, in friendship and peace. A poor hostess I would be if I did not offer you that." She beckoned forward a servant, who brought to him a golden cup filled with a rich dark red liquid. Peter, not wanting to be discourteous, took it and, after raising it in toast, drank deeply.

A warm softness came over him, as though Rhiainwyn's cloak had covered him again, and suddenly, it was as though he did not want to leave. There was nothing to go home to, a feeling seemed to tell him. No, better to stay here, and be content."

* * *

_Peter's face fell, and his voice was silent. Caspian and the rest of the crowd listened eagerly for when he might go on, but after a few minutes, it seemed apparent that he would not finish his story._

"_Peter?" Caspian finally said._

_Peter looked away from the fire he'd been staring into absentmindedly, and shook his head. "No, no more of the story now. It hurts to hear it all again. I'd forgotten…how it ends."_

_Caspian tried to hide his disappointment, but it was obvious the rest of the listeners were vexed at not being able to hear the end of the story. He retreated back to the feasting tables and sat down heavily, pouring out a cup of the sweet wine and drinking it._

"_So Peter did not finish his story?" a voice asked from nearby. Caspian turned to find __Doctor Cornelius __there, tucking into a rather large slice of cherry pie._

"_Doctor Cornelius, you would know the end of the story!" Caspian realized, for his old tutor had been the one to tell him many of the old tales of Narnia before the Telmarines had come, and knew a great many things about a great many wonderous happenings in Narnia's history._

_The half-dwarf chuckled and wiped his lips on the edge of his sleeve. "He was telling you of Rhindon?" _

_Caspian nodded._

"_That's a tale few know in full, but I for my part will tell what I know of it. You heard how the sword broke, and how the Mountain Queen took it – yes, she is a queen of the mountain, and not a lady alone – and made it new again. And Peter had just gone with her daughter to reclaim it. Very well, that's where I'll begin. Peter stayed in the hall of the Mountain Queen for forty days and forty nights, eating and feasting and enjoying the company of the Lady of the Gilded Horn…"_


	3. Chapter 3

The Naming of Rhindon Wolfsbane, Part Three

Apparently no one thought Rhiainwyn was too much of a Mary Sue last chapter, which is good, because I was going for Arthurian romance type female lead, and that's dangerously close to MS territory. There's a bit of what some would consider dodgy implications in this chapter, but that's only if you read the religious undertones in Lewis. Otherwise you've got nothing to worry about.

Hopefully this chapter won't be too confusing; a few different people are telling the story again now.

* * *

"So Peter stayed in the hall of the Mountain Queen for forty days and forty nights, eating and feasting and enjoying the company of the Lady of the Gilded Horn. But the lady had many secrets, and she did not share all of them with Peter. Every night, before the last of the wine had been drunk and the company went to sleep, Rhiainwyn would leave the hall by a small side door which only she could open, and from which she would emerge on the following night when her mother returned to begin the feasting." Caspian said to his grandson, Tarian.

"And what happened after that, Grandfather?" Tarian, a rosy cheeked boy of ten, asked eagerly.

"Then Tarian stopped asking so many questions and let his grandfather rest a little while," Grynne, his daughter-in-law and Tarian's mother, said.

"But I want to hear how the story ends, grandfather!" Tarian complained.

Caspian smiled at his enthusiasm. "Then Parcecleux will tell it to you; I'm sure he knows this better than I do."

The troubadour Parcecleux came over and bowed deeply and theatrically for the king. "As it was King Peter himself who told it to you, your majesty, I doubt there are none who remember it as well as you."

Caspian shook his head. "I may remember it well, Parcecleux, but you tell it better. Now don't leave the child waiting for the ending."

Parcecleux bowed respectfully and strummed his lute, thinking as he sat down at the foot of the steps leading to Caspian's throne. "Ah, now…Peter was in the hall of the Mountain Queen, with the Fair Rhiainwyn and all the company of the Mountain Folk. Every night was filled with laughter and dancing, but Peter never saw the end of the parties- he would fall asleep before the last wine had been drunk and was woken by Rhiainwyn when her mother returned to begin the feasting anew the next night." The troubadour's eyes grew wide for suspense, and Tarian leaned in closer. "For there was powerful magic in the Mountain Queen's wine, and since Peter was only a son of Adam, and not a Child of the Mountain or the Sky or of the Emperor-across-the-Sea himself, as the Mountain Queen was, too much of the wine made him sleepy while it made the others still more joyful and merry. So he slept away forty days in the Mountain Queen's domain. On the fortieth night, however, Aslan himself came and graced the hall.

Now Peter loved and respected Aslan very much, and did not deign to drink while the Son of the Emperor of all Narnia himself was present, so that when Rhiainwyn left the hall by her secret door, Peter saw her. Peter also saw that when the last of the wine was drunk, all the company fell into a deep sleep. The Mountain Queen looked about at her company, making sure all were asleep, and Peter pretended, closing his eyes and lying down on the rush strewn floor. When she was sure that no one stirred, the Mountain Queen left the hall with Aslan at her side.

Peter waited for a long time before stirring, and went to the little chamber on the side of the hall where Rhiainwyn had made her exit, but he found it locked, with no handle to open it, and only a tiny golden keyhole which was impossible to peer through.

Suddenly, Peter heard footsteps coming, and fell again to the floor, pretending to be asleep again. But who should return this time but Rhiainwyn, more beautiful than ever, still glowing from her morning's work pronouncing the arrival of her mother to the rest of Narnia. In her hand was a cunning little dagger made of gold and as she approached him with it Peter was suddenly very frightened; did she mean to kill him with it?"

Tarian gasped in shock and horror. "The Lady of the Gilded Horn wouldn't do that!" he defended valiantly, struck that Parcecleux would even suggest such a thing.

The troubadour nodded wisely. "No, indeed, little prince, she would not kill him; nevertheless, that is what Peter thought. Rhiainwyn did not want to kill Peter with her little knife: rather, she knelt down near him and, unbuttoning his tunic so that his chest was bare, took the blade and quickly pricked the skin," he plucked a quick little note on his lute, "—like this—near Peter's heart, and drawing a small crystal vial out of her robes, let the drop of blood fall into it. Then she hid the vial in her robes again and went away to her own rooms deep within the mountain."

Tarian was very curious. "Why would she do that?" he asked Parcecleux, very much bewildered by all of this.

"Well, little prince, if Peter had cared to notice, (and let us not forget the wine would not let him) for forty days the Lady of the Gilded Horn had been doing much the same thing every morning- taking a drop of his blood and putting it in a vial, leaving a tiny cut that made very much healed come the night time. But now Peter had noticed, and he was very alert for what would happen that night. Again he drank no wine, but this time, when the party had reached its highest point, Rhiainwyn beckoned him to her little chamber, placing into the tiny golden key hole an equally tiny golden key, just the size of a young princeling's smallest finger," Parcecleux said mischievously, watching Tarian hold up his hand to marvel at how small the key must have been. "And inside the room there was- Guess, Tarian. What do you think?"

"Treasure!" Tarian said happily. Parcecleux shook his head. "Sweets?" Tarian asked, thinking through everything he might keep under lock and key.

"No, my prince, it was Peter's sword!" Tarian's mouth made a wide and amazed O, and Parcecleux went on. "Yes, the same blade that Aslan had given him, remade just as good as new. Yes, Peter was amazed as well, for he had never thought of seeing the sword again, and he reached forward to pick it up. It was warm under his touch, and seemed to shimmer in the light with a little glow."

"Like Rhiainwyn glowed?" Tarian asked.

"Exactly," the bard affirmed. "Rhiainwyn pulled out the tiny vial, and let the blood drip onto the blade, where it hissed and steam came from it. Peter was again very frightened, for he knew the High and the Deep magic when he saw it, and this was something very High and Deep indeed.

'There is a spell upon the sword , Peter called Wolfsbane,'Rhiainwyn said, 'and when it is finished, none but you may take hold of it without death. It knows your blood now, and neither friend nor foe may use it against you.'

Peter smiled and looked at the Lady. 'That is a princely gift, Lady Rhiainwyn, and too good for me,' he said." Parcecleux paused. " You see, Tarian, Peter was in love with the Lady, as many men before him had been, and many after were still to be. It is hard not to love the sunrise, especially when she is a woman in flesh before you."

Tarian wrinkled his nose; the old tales of love and romance hold little of value for a child of ten. Parcecleux remembered this, and quickly went on.

"However, Rhiainwyn said, 'There is one thing more that needs to be done.' And saying this, she brought from the corner a little white lamb, without blemish or mark upon it, with its front feet hobbled together. 'Forty days I've taken your blood, Peter, and forty days the sword has grown stronger in the knowing of it. But it must kill before it truly knows its purpose. It needs only this sacrifice to bind it to you forever," Rhiainwyn reasoned with him, unwavering.

Peter was appalled, the spell of Rhiainwyn's beauty broken. 'You cannot ask me to do this thing-This sword must not spill innocent blood!' Peter asserted, turning away from the bound lamb at his feet. 'It is a fighting tool, not a butcher's knife!' He turned away from her, intending to leave the room, leave all of this before it completely poisoned him!

'The magic must be closed!' Rhiainwyn repeated.

'No!' Shouted Peter, turning around to face the Dawn Bringer. 'I will not harm it for a spell's sake!'

Rhiainwyn looked at him for the briefest moment, her eyes sad, and suddenly ran at him. Peter hadn't realized that the sword was pointing towards her, but he felt the blade slide into flesh, the sword pushing back against his arm. Her body lingered there on the blade, blood spilling onto the metal, running down to the hilts to drip onto Peter's hand, warm and unforgiving. She smiled at him, her eyes still sad, and then she faded away, turning into a jet of flame that soon burned itself to ash.

Peter was in shock, looking at the sword where lovely Rhiainwyn had just…died. Hateful word!" Parcecleux said passionately, the poet in his soul revealing itself. "And now the blade read, where the blood had spilled and turned to dust,

I am Rhindon, Rhinnan made me in the forges of the sun

Blade once broken, now renewed; what was many now is one."

Parcecleux stopped speaking and looked, not at Tarian, who was safe near his grandfather's chair, but at Caspian himself, who looked very sad. "My king, if it pains you, I will stop," the troubadour ventured.

Caspian shook his head. "No, Parcecleux, continue. It is a good story, if a painful one sometimes to hear. The boy should hear it."

The troubadour nodded, and took a few minutes to compose himself.

"Did Rhiainwyn really die?" Tarian asked; the ten year old was still a little bit in shock at that ending. Parcecleux, seeing no reason to withhold the truth, shook his head.

"No, little prince, she did not. Remember that she was the Lady of the Gilded Horn, and the Dawn herself, and like the Dawn, she died every night, when the feasting was over, and was reborn again in the morning as beautiful as before. But Peter had not known this, and he was stricken grievously by what he had just done. Fortunate for him, then, that the Mountain Queen found him, and set his mind at ease.

'Do not fear, Peter Wolfsbane,' she said, 'She has not left you entirely. Wait again for morning, and she will return, reborn again to be as beautiful as you remember her. All strong magic must be sealed in blood- thus it has always been, and thus will it always be. Sacrifice is required in all of life, King Peter – you would do well to remember that. Now go- take your sword and head for your home; now is not yet the hour for forsaking it entirely."

Peter turned back to look at her, and feeling very childish, admitted, "But I do not know the way."

The Mountain Queen smiled, and laid a hand on his shoulder; her touch, like her daughter's was warm and full of comfort. 'It will not always be thus, King Peter; the way home is always the easiest way of all.'

And without another pause, there he was, back in the hall at Cair Paravel, where he had been when he left with the Lady of the Gilded Horn. Right where we are now," Parcecleux said.

"And there's Rhindon!" Tarian said, pointing above the great fireplace where the sword was hung alongside other weapons of great repute- a hunting horn, a silver shield, a great white bow, and a pair of daggers with cherry red handles and lions in their pommels.

"Yes, that is Rhindon," Caspian said, getting out of his chair to gaze at them with his grandson. "Rhinnan's Bane, it means in the Old Tongue, after the lady whose blood etched the name, but it may also be simply Ringed One in the common tongue, or Ruler of the World, as others read it. And all the 

other weapons of the High Kings and Queens there with it. Which one do you like best, Tarian?" he asked the little boy, and Tarian thought about this for a moment.

"The daggers are nice," he said after a while, "But I still like Rhindon best." He looked up at his grandfather, something troubling him. "Is that where Papa is, Grandfather? Feasting with the Mountain Queen?"

At this, Caspian looked sadder than ever. "I hope so, Tarian. There are far worse places to be and under far worse enchantments than hers."

The little boy nodded, thinking about his father and Caspian's only son, the prince Rilian. Then, thinking of another question, Tarian asked Caspian, "Grandfather, if the Lady made the sword so no one but King Peter could hold Rhindon, then how do you have it?"

"Peter gave it to me, as a present when he left Narnia again. The Mountain Queen reforged the sword so that it could not be taken from Peter by force of arms; only by giving can the power be transferred. When you are old enough, your father will give it to you, and you and all your sons must keep it for him when he comes again. Peter never returned to the Castle under the Mountain, but he will, someday." Caspian said. "He must."

Tarian nodded very seriously. "I will, Grandfather. I will."

* * *


	4. Epilogue

Part Four, or, the Epilogue.

* * *

When you are old enough, your father will give it to you, and you and all your sons must keep it for him when he comes again," my grandfather had told me. And I, Tarian, have kept the sword Rhindon for the High King Peter, as he asked. My sons after me kept it, and their sons after them. I am a man long dead, awaiting the return of the Emperor of Narnia along with all my forefathers, but still we keep a watch over the sword as our fathers asked of us. The day is close when he will return to us, and bring with him the High Kings and Queens of old High Narnian days, but we are patient; three thousand years we have waited for this, and a thousand years more we will wait if it means their return is assured.

See now, the earth rumbles and the ground shakes, and the living are turned from their houses as the dead are turned from their graves, and the Narnia that is becomes the Narnia that was mean to be. He is coming there, amid the turmoil, Aslan himself, Son of the Great King, and behind him come three of the Four High Kings and Queens, with their parents behind them. Not more than children, really, but as any of our ghostly company will tell you it is not really age that matters, only strength of heart. We are all here now, all the kings and queens of Narnia- the six Franks, Gale, Swanwhite, the ten Caspians, Rilian, Tarian, Ossian, Gabrian, Aubrian, Erlian, and Tirian, the last of my bloodline.

After all are judged, they are before us now and Aslan stops, turning to greet them. "Once a king or queen, in Narnia," He says, "Always a king or queen in Narnia."

We nod as the children laugh and smile; have we not been watching and protecting Narnia as Kings and Queens are meant to do, even in death? Aslan smiles too. "Is not the way home the easiest of all?" he asks them, and they all nod, except for Peter, who has heard those words before from another tongue. Aslan turns to him, and looks deep into his soul. "Are you ready to return here, Peter?" he asks, and the boy who is almost a man nods sincerely. Aslan's voice deepens, becoming more serious. "Are you ready to return there?"

Peter's face falls; he knows of what Aslan is speaking. He cannot decide, his face fixed in confusion. "The road home is easy, but the road to love is hard and rocky and set with many foes," Aslan cautioned. "Are you ready to take that road?"

He beckons forth my progeny, the last of the Narnian kings, Tirian, who brings forth the sword. We have kept it, all of us, for you, King Peter. Take it from my many times great grandchild's arms; feel the power you once felt in it! He does, and sense of happiness and warmth fills me, the warmth I never felt when holding it. Blood was not spilt on it in love for me, but for him. He can feel the warmth now too, and it fills his face with a sad smile.

"I do not know the way," Peter finally admits, and Aslan understands.

"Then I will travel it with you, Son of Adam," Aslan says, and, letting Peter place his hand on his mane, they begin their long journey into the mountains, back to the castle of the Mountain Queen.

What was done there is well known, how Aslan battered down the mountain and released his sister, the Mountain Queen, from her enchanted palace there, the palace her father had built to hold her in and make her remain the Sun, allowing her to return to her father, the Emperor-across-the-Sea. Then he made Peter into a Lord of the Dawn, so that every morning, with his Lady, after a call from her Gilded Horn, he leads the Golden Hunt across the Sky, his mother-in-law following after all her company in her fiery chariot. At night, the feasting still continues, though no one who drinks of the wine is bound now to stay forever.

It is a place of joy, true, unchained joy, as joy is meant to be, and of laughter and story-telling. But of all the tales that are told in that place (for travelers who venture there say they tell a great many, most as old as the Mountain Queen herself) there is none loved better by the Lord and Lady of the Dawn than the tale of the Naming of Rhindon Wolfsbane.

* * *

Yes, the terrible secret's out; I, Mercury Gray, am a sucker for happy endings. I tried to fit this in with both the biblical and Narnian version of the Eschaton (fun word meaning end of time I learned in my Theology class) and it kind of worked and kind of didn't. The reason this is here is because I felt like the story hadn't ended in the last chapter and I wanted Peter to go back to Rhiainwyn. At his coronation (in the movie, anyway) he's given to The Great Northern Sky, and I thought he could rule that any number of ways.

To all of you who accepted my conjecturing and conjuring with Narnia's canon, and stayed along for the whole ride, thank you. Your reviews made several very bad days this semester a whole less bleak.


End file.
